


retrograde

by cowsatdawn (pigeonsatdawn)



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Introspection, Light Angst, back to square one lads, he's an idiot and i don't claim him y'all can have him, kieran is always confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonsatdawn/pseuds/cowsatdawn
Summary: their relationship goes two full circles—the first time, he ruins out of reflex;the second, on full conscience.kieran white realizes his nature, and then once again.(alternatively: kieran white having an identity crisis; kieran white being an idiot.)trigger warning:mild depictions of violence, murder, episode 43.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> to end 2020 the way i started [writing on ao3], here’s a kieran white introspective fic. *cracks knuckles* it’s been a while, hasn’t it? (i have to admit, it’s a bit OOC and very much wonky—i just wanted to write a character deconstruction, so have this anyway)
> 
> \+ _y’all_ i KNOW that kieran’s couch is small as shit, but let’s pretend his couch isn’t pushed all the way against the table for some weird reason. (probably because he doesn’t expect visitors in his apartment like, ever, but we ignore that because i hate the fucking idea of stools.) 
> 
> _when you read this, do keep in mind: this is a subjective pov._
> 
> oh if you were wondering about the crack pseud— for every time [constellalune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Constellalune/pseuds/Constellalune) calls me a cow, i add a line of pain to this fic. now y’all know who to blame <3

**HE KNEW LAUREN** Sinclair—better than anyone, better than herself, better than he knew anyone, better than he knew himself. 

He watched with a twisted sense of satisfaction the way her face contorted, a sequence of emotions all too familiar, all of which he’d seen in her before. First, her eyes widened ever so slowly and her jaw drops, agape at the startling scene before her. He then heard the gears in her head turning, like clockwork, every second passing in tandem to his own heartbeat. Slow. Fast. Her face operated in the same manner: her raised brows folden in, eyes narrowing as they singled in on the source of the anomaly, the cause of the problem, the one who brought about the _change_. Him. As it had always been. Her lips remained parted, but her teeth clashed against each other with force, corners of her lips curling into that of a scowl. Nostrils flared wide open, and she heaved in and out rapidly. Her fingers dug into her flesh so hard her hand began to tremble. He knew she wouldn’t mind—he knew she wouldn’t be feeling any tangible pain for the moment.

_Thud_. A shaky footstep. 

_Drip_. Blood, down the metal steel. 

_Thud_. A frantic heartbeat.

_Drip_. Tear, down the pale cheek.

—A disparity of turquoise against aureate.

“Why?” she whispered. A futile question, one she already knew the answer to. Both knew that. Kieran White murdered only for two reasons. No justification in the world would satisfy Lauren Sinclair. 

“I’m an assassin, _officer_.” Adjacent. Orthogonal. Two poles crossed—and it was clear which one impaled the other. “It’s my job to kill.”

She raged anyway. It was what he expected, and upon every fracture he saw in her composure, he smirked a little wider. The officer he’d seen through. The ex-detective he’d calculated, figured all her tragedies and fatal flaws. _His little puppet_. 

“You—you could’ve told me! We’ve been through this!”

He slides the sword over his palm, gloves absorbing the warm blood of Abel Sandman, life status finally matching that of the records. The blade had dug into his skin, his own blood smearing on the cold metal. 

“You said, and I quote, no ‘shady and illegal Phantom Scythe business. Investigation related only’. I may be a murderer, but I’m a man of honor.”

“And I _told_ you how important _he_ is to the investigation,” she snarled. Lauren Sinclair was always an array of feels, and among these she’d been shaped to show but one—the colour red; though you could see the fractures of every other color in her eyes, that though gleamed gold, welled with tears in which what little moonlight shining through the windows reflected upon. Upon the sight did his heart pick up its speed, electric bolts sharply conducted through the narrow vessels beneath his skin.

“We already have all the information he has to offer us. He’s no longer of use to us.”

When she felt the tear run down her cheek, she took a moment to wipe it away, sniffling. With the way she looked at him, you wouldn’t even be able to tell she was crying. “And I told you he had a plan, a plan that would benefit _us_. Why can’t you just accept that you don’t have to work alone all the time? _God_ , why are you so _stubborn_?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, he’s as much of a Phantom Scythe member as I am.” A step forward. “We plead loyalty to none, he can turn his back on us as soon as we don’t comply with his vague plans. Then it’d be the end for us.” A step forward, closer. “What even makes you believe that you can trust him, that he’ll go through the plan as he says?”

_What makes you think you can trust us?_

_What makes you think you can trust_ me _?_

She looked at him agape. “You’re right, I suppose. I shouldn’t have trusted him.” _I shouldn’t have trusted you._ “That doesn’t give you a reason to _kill_ him.”

“I was ordered to,” he reminded. 

“That doesn’t excuse _you_ not telling me about it. The last time you withheld information from me—” She choked on her words like they were his hands, coiling around her throat. “Do you never learn?”

“The last time you trusted me I almost killed you,” he said with utter clarity, even _she_ wavered under his assertiveness. And he mocked with dripping venom, “ _Do you never learn?_ ”

—when one of them let go of their breaths, they knew their bond of trust would already have been broken once more. And so—

—

—“Did you even care?” she asked, voice in a whisper, still in the same breath, and he wondered why she was adamant on holding on to something that was bound to crumble. Among the many things he could understand about Lauren Sinclair, perhaps this was the one he couldn’t seem to make sense of.

“You can’t expect _me_ , of all people, to _care_ ,” he simply stated.

Her eyes flitted between the marble floor, and back to his eyes. “You—” She let out that shaky breath. “You said—”

He waited.

In a wicked way, he wanted to see her break when she did.

“You said you—you said you _love_ me.”

He slowly cocked his head. Curious. Curious as to what possessed him to ever claim such a thing, much less believe in it. Curious how she could believe in such a fact so blindly, no matter that she heard it as truth. She would’ve seen how he was, she should’ve known that he was incapable of that word. After everything he’d done to her. After everything.

But there _had_ been a time he believed in the same hallucination. He’d been delusional, believing that he could harbor feelings at all—especially for someone other than himself. It had never been love. It had simply been an automatic reaction, to a part of himself he’d lost, long long ago. The memory of the humanity stripped away from him. It took him too long to realize it. Nothing was real—nothing had been real since the night they picked him up, the night he was beaten the life out of him,

the night they’d decided to turn him into another one of their monsters.

“I don’t love you,” Kieran White said, devoid of emotion. 

“You—you’re lying,” she said, but she took a step backward. Ready, as she always was. Ready to run, as was in her nature. Always on the run from the truth she couldn’t accept.

“You know I’m not. I don’t love you, and I never have.”

“Then why did you—”

“I was mistaken,” he admitted. That was the least he could do— of course, he didn’t have to do it, he was just— perhaps he had a particular affinity to be clear in everything, to always tell the truth. 

“Mistaken,” she echoed, hollow in the face of the grand room they were in. “Mistake.”

—one last moment to undo everything—but everything had been undone.

Once was chance, twice was coincidence. She gave her a third second, but he stood his ground.

Then she ran.

_Of course she did._ It was only what he’d expected of Lauren Sinclair. She was the most human of humans, heart worn on her sleeve, true colors vibrantly plastered all over her. He understood her inside out, knew which buttons to push, which strings to pull, to make or break her.

He’d tell himself the Phantom Scythe shaped him this way, but even deep down he knew—he’d always been like this before he saw himself as a monster.

He stared at the familiar reflection of himself on the marble floor for one last time, before leaving the hall, sans a partner, only his loyal sword in hand.

* * *

**_BY THE TIME_ ** _he was eighteen, he’d perfectly mastered the art of murder._

_It was, like all things, a rehearsed sequence of actions—catch them off guard, keep your distance. Watch your body in case they retaliate, always have every inch of your skin covered. When you see an opening, thrust your arm—along with your weapon. Push, even if there is to be resistance. Push until you feel the silver blade graze against the organs inside the body, until you feel the lumps and the thick layers of cells to cut through, and push further. Push until you reach the bones, and hear the metal screech against it. Even when the point of the blade has gone through the last layer of skin, push until the entire blade coats itself in red. And when it’s done, you feel the way the blade slides with ease out of the cut, and you thank the blood, the result of the deed. Rich, viscous, mineral._ Life _._

_Rejoice upon the sight of life._

_Sandman’s death—the overdue one—was no different. He’d been trailing the man for a few days, and was curious as to why he kept lingering around Greychapel when he’d claimed that he was planning to be cutting off ties with the Phantom Scythe, free of their crimes. Not that it was going to be possible; after all, he had been sent to eliminate Sandman himself for that very reason. He followed the man into the hollow chapel, and upon confirming that there was no one else inside he decided to execute his job right then and there._

_He hid behind one of the pillars for a while, watching as Sandman simply walked to the altar, staying quiet for a few moments. And then: “The Leader has sent you to kill me, hasn’t he?”_

_He had the nerve—he always did—to scoff. “Well I wouldn’t have come here just to chat, now would I?”_

_“Who but the Purple Hyacinth himself could understand the eccentric ways in which he thinks?” Sandman drawled, turning around to face him. The man’s face was charred with age, wrinkles detailing hardships he must’ve endured in trying to survive as a dead man. The corners of the assassin’s mouth twitched, and he thought to himself—if there was one emotion that the monster could feel, it must have been derisive pity. After all, they’d worked so hard, only to meet such a futile end..._

_“Who would’ve imagined that the Purple Hyacinth would be desperate enough to team up with a crooked cop to escape the shackles of the Scythe?”_

_His gaze turned cold, but he did not falter. He’d gotten used to the question—it was one which haunted him daily; it was one he was prepared to face. “You see it as desperate, I see it as strategic. You think it’s stupid to rely on another human who can betray me, but you underestimate me; I hold much more power over her than she does me.”_

_It was Sandman’s turn to scoff at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know the lengths she can go to to achieve what she desires.”_

_He took a confident step forward, smirking. “Oh, I know,” he uttered, loud and clear. “And it’ll be the ultimate finale of my plan.” Another step forward, and he clicked his tongue. “A shame you won’t be able to witness it, really. It’ll be beautiful.”_

_“What exactly are you planning?” Sandman seemed to have been preparing for this, meeting his doom by his blade. He did not tremble one bit; the young man found it quite impressive, but he was just as rooted in his decision as the other._

_“To take down the Leader, bring an end to the Scythe… you already know that.”_

_“If you’re going to cause mass destruction, that doesn’t make you any different from them,” Sandman spat, daring himself a step closer to the assassin._

_He cocked his head. “True. But—” A step to close the gap— “I also never claimed to be different from them, now have I?”_

_Then it hit Sandman—that indeed, the Phantom Scythe_ had _created a monster, a monster with his own desires to fulfill. And for the first time, true fear glinted in his eyes, dreading all the things that may happen to Ardhalis under the sword of a single man, broken beyond repair._

_The assassin tried a grin, because after all, he should be feeling euphoric, that his victim was beginning to realize the full extent of things he could do. But the grin came out slightly crooked, because—because perhaps Sandman had a point—_

_But the Purple Hyacinth was not one to hesitate, and so he thrust his sword forward, slashing through his body faster than Sandman would’ve expected, and he took the time to relish in the surprised look on his victim’s face, the way he always did._

_He’d like to convince himself that if he stared at it long enough, maybe he’d feel the regret so commonly associated with the purple flowers he leaves in his murders._

_But even as he watched, lost in time, as the blood soaked through the hyacinth petals, he could no longer feel a thing._

* * *

**“YOU DID WELL,”** the messenger grunted from the other end of the table. 

Kieran White raised an eyebrow cockily, smirking. Clearly the messenger hadn’t been expecting him to successfully carry out his task again, believing that he’d been slacking off lately. It was all the more reason to keep doing his job as he was expected to, all the more reason to perform _better_ in each task. 

All the more reason to not tell his partner in crime _anything_ —he knew if he told Lauren Sinclair about it, she’d try her best to negotiate, to find a way out, when for him the only solution was to carry out the task as he’d been instructed to. And in the face of their goal— _his_ goal—he couldn’t afford to care about her morals anymore. 

He couldn’t afford to _care_.

“Don’t I always?” Kieran said, forcing confidence as he leaned back on his seat, the wooden chair he’d gotten acquainted with over the years. “You have so little faith in me, someone who’s carried out more than half of our murders. Did you forget who committed the murder on Hanbury, the murder in the Prison Tower, all the way up on the fifteenth floor? That wasn’t easy work, I tell you.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” the messenger warned casually. “You’ve got a high kill count because you’ve been around for a while, but some of the newer assassins can easily beat that given the amount of time you have.”

His lips parted, revealing a slight grin. “Oh?” he simply uttered, taking the challenge. “Then why don’t you give them a chance to do the dirty work? I mean, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do myself, so why keep giving me tasks instead of the other assassins?”

“Speaking of which, you still haven’t done your simple job of finding Lune and killing them. How long has it been now, Hyacinth?” The messenger’s gloved fingers drummed against the bare table, slow but calculated beats. 

“If they’re daring enough to betray the Phantom Scythe, you can bet finding them won’t be as easy as finding anyone else.”

“But you found Sandman—”

“You’ve identified Sandman as a specific person, and he frequents around regular Phantom Scythe hotspots. We don’t know who Lune is, some possibly being among the growing numbers of the organization. I don’t even recognize half of the people here, let alone the people part of the APD. Not to mention, I have a full time job in the precinct now, where they can easily point out any suspicious act from my part. Do I need to go on?”

The messenger said nothing for a while, continuing to drum his fingers repeatedly. Then, he let out a forced exhale. “You know the Leader isn’t so patient.”

“I wouldn’t know, it’s not like _I’m_ the one in contact with the Leader, am I?” he snorted. It was a little too bad that the messenger had his face hidden behind the bird’s mask, because he was sure the man was glaring at him. Then again, it was in his nature to joke in lieu of everything.

“Just a warning before you get too high and mighty, Hyacinth. The Leader is always watching you. Any misstep you do—”

“He’ll know about, yeah, yeah, I get the hunch,” he waved his hand in the air, all too familiar with the way the meet-ups with the messengers went. He then straightened his face and pulled out a file. “From Sandman’s hideout. Apparently he seemed prepared to die any day, so he made sure not to leave physical evidence where he lived.”

“And you’re sure he doesn’t have evidence that can incriminate us lying everywhere else?”

If he was to be sure of anything, it would be that any evidence he had would have been passed on to Lauren Sinclair. Anything she had, could be traced to him. He would not touch her.

“I’ll look around and see if anything that belongs to him needs to be burned,” he said, standing up from his seat. The messenger gave a brief nod.

“Deal with Lune as soon as possible.”

Already turned with his back to the messenger, he allowed the expression on his face to drop. “That’s gonna have to take a while,” he called as he left the room, _because Lune no longer exists._

* * *

**_THE DEAL BROKE_ ** _the night the Purple Hyacinth stormed into the fifteenth floor of the Prison Tower, past all security, killing off everyone on his way._

_When Lauren Sinclair stormed into his cave the next day, he could hardly claim he was surprised—if anything, he’d have expected her arrival. He’d expected her to go rampant from the news, even anticipated her possibly_ harming _him in any way. No matter how much she tried to deny it, she always had those violent tendencies that went along with her rage, and he knew that there was nothing he could do to calm it down._

_He knew Lauren Sinclair better than he did himself—_

_—and perhaps it was true the other way around: Lauren Sinclair knew Kieran White more than she did herself. And so when, in her rage, she had yelled at him for him being_ nothing but a monster _, it had always been known to her first before he realized it, that—_

_—that—_

_—that no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, no matter how much he tried to act like a human, doing the most human of activities, engaging in a lifestyle clean of crime—deep down, he was already a monster. That, in itself, was irrevocable._

_He snapped, and he turned into said monster. He_ laughed _at her, because it was foolish of her to even see him as human for a second—“You must be the only person delusional enough to believe that”—he taunted her, and he watched as fear flashed through her eyes—“Oh please, Lauren, I am the Purple Hyacinth, the reason sane people in this city don’t sleep at night”—and then he put her on a chokehold, muttering—“I ‘brutally slaughtered dozens of innocent people’ hours ago, didn’t I? But I’ve done so much better than that”—he described all the irredeemable deeds he’d done—“That was the day I killed so many people at once, Hanbury street literally ran red with their blood”—and then—and then he shot out his hand on her neck, tightening, constricting her airflow, as hard as he could, because he wanted to kill her._

_“I could strangle you with my bare hands—_

_—and not shed a single tear._

_Why do you seem so surprised?”_

_He_ genuinely _wanted to kill her—_

_—after all, she was the personification of the idiotic hope he had, that perhaps a part of him was still human._

_He wanted it gone, wanted it quenched._

_No such hope shall exist for a man who had destroyed so much._

_And so, to further destroy her even more, because he knew Lauren Sinclair as well as she did him, he shot at her all the ways in which she was as monstrous as himself. All the aspects of her that were_ bad _—but even he knew nothing could be as bad as the crimes he’d committed. It was a lame attempt—and yet, the officer was_ human _, terribly so, that the mere idea of her being not as moral as she’d like to believe shook her up so badly. And he knew, of everything he’d done that night—even more than the fact that he’d almost_ killed _her right then and there—the realization, the self-realization he’d brought up in her, was the one that hurt the most._

_When she eventually left—like they always did; no one wanted to dawdle around a monster’s life for too long, or they’d be killed in the end—all he felt was hollow. Of course, how could a monster harbor_ feelings _?_

_He looked at his reflection in the cold water surrounding the cave. It was dark inside, despite the amount of lamps he’d put up. He saw nothing but red. He wasn’t quite sure which red._

_He wanted to believe that there was some_ human _left in him, because after all, his goal was—his goal was to rid the world of these nasty monsters, the monsters that had taken away his chance at_ life _, and prevent the same thing from happening to so many others. Was that not a humanistic cause?_

_But when he saw his hand and thought, really thought of what he’d just done, he thought of the way he’d been bound by the monsters above him, the way they chained him to the chair, the way the beat him until he coughed out blood, and when he tried to break free, he forgot that he’d been held back with shackles on his wrists and ankles, the way the dirt-accumulated sweat seeped into the wounds and mixed in with the blood, pooling around his bare feet on the muddy ground, the way his salty tears—_ even for him it was hard to believe that at one point, he was still able to cry _—lined the cuts on his lips, and he was able to taste the salt, the iron, the bitterness of the air in that suffocating room—_

_and he thought of how he’d suffocated the life out of her the same way,_

_and he realized that he’d already turned into one of them._

_It was too late for him._

_The more time he spent around Lauren Sinclair, the more he witnessed the human in her, the more he came to realize that there was nothing he did that could be considered human anymore._

* * *

**IT WAS NOT** just Lauren Sinclair’s internal schema that he’d memorized. He seemed to have become particularly familiarized with her external appearance, perhaps because he’d been spending too much time with her.

Perhaps because she was the only human daft enough to stay within a mile radius in his presence, knowing the full extent of what he could do. Or perhaps, because he’d tried to regain her trust—after all, he still needed her for their plan to work. Even if they might have destroyed whatever personal relationship went on between them, ultimately they were still in this for their common goal. It wasn’t until late, though, that he realized they could never work together in a professional manner. 

And eventually they had broken through those boundaries, again. And of that, he was purely to blame, again.

Lauren Sinclair was truly a trick of the light. Somehow, _somehow_ , despite knowing her inside out, knowing what she could do at anytime at any given circumstance, he—for a second—he believed that—

He slammed the wooden pencil against his table, noticing the jarringly thick stroke of lead he’d formed when he pressed against the paper too hard from thinking. He exhaled a slow shudder, trying to maintain his calm. He focused on the way the snow was falling outside, slowly fluttering their way to ground, floating along with the tranquil winds of the night, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. He focused on a single flake, its path from the sky and eventually on to his window pane, before it melted into a water drop, streaming down the glass silently. 

He shouldn’t get—he knew he shouldn’t get too worked up over something this insignificant. No. But Lauren Sinclair wasn’t anything insignificant. She was his antithesis, all things good, all things human. 

The reminder of everything he wanted to be.

It was so easy and too hard to draw Lauren Sinclair. As soon as he’d gotten a hold of his pencil earlier, his hands flew and began sketching the familiar outline of her face, the soft waves of her striking hair, her angled eyes that, even when pensive, held so much intensity in them, and—and this was a recent development—the faintest hint of a smile she’d reserved for him. It was so faint—he’d seen her smile wider with his friends, even with him—but this one was _so tender_ , one through which she finally allowed herself to perhaps—to perhaps relax around his presence. When he’d first seen it, he’d been so entranced by the sight, that the memory never really left him, even if he may have immortalized it on paper.

It was a smile he never really deserved, though.

His physical heart felt like it was being clenched under the grasp of his own hand against her throat. It was purely a curse, to have Lauren Sinclair sent his way, an agonizing impression of humanity he could never have for himself. He wanted so badly to know how it felt—how it felt to be so rich of life, the way her crimson hair and her golden eyes were, dripping vividity even in the darkest of places. He wanted to be able to empathize with others, quite the way she could—delighted when others were, doleful when others were. When he looked at her, on paper or otherwise, all he felt was that little twinge, and all he could think of was how much he wanted—how much he wanted that.

Not her. _That_.

And he’d been mistaken about that. He’d thought he wanted her, when all he really wanted was to feel human, a feeling _she_ understood and displayed all too well. He’d deceived himself, but moreover, he’d deceived her, and ruined what was supposed to be a professional partnership.

He didn’t feel guilt, because of course, he couldn’t feel anything, but he knew better than to tie himself any longer to the officer. She didn’t deserve this, anyway. No one deserved to be tied back, chained to a monster.

And he—he should stop staring at dreams and imaginations, wishing for something he could no longer have.

He stood up from his chair. Gripping the paper tightly, he walked out of the room and locked it, and headed towards the kitchen table where his candle burned dimly in the cold of his apartment. He held up the paper, the fire’s blaze visible through the translucent material of the paper, making the outline of his sketch more blackened and weighted in contrast to the pinkish hue of the paper. He stared at that one accidental stroke, the line too thick—

and he set that spot to the tip of the flame, and let the fire consume the paper from within. So Lauren Sinclair burned, the fire spreading inside out, scorching the paper to the edges and corners. Into nothingness the paper went; out of sight, and soon, he hoped, out of mind.

Particles of ash fall gradually onto the surface of the table and to the ground, blending with the dark, invisible to the eye.

* * *

**_“GOD, LAUREN, YOU—_ ** _” Kieran White sighed in frustration. “Why are you so bullheaded?”_

_“Bullheaded?” Lauren Sinclair shrieked at him, trying to keep her voice as quiet as possible. They had been in the docks for a stakeout, trailing the black-haired lady whom he’d coincidentally managed to encounter earlier, while he was having a drink in The Grim Goblin. Lauren had found him outside while he was trying to inconspicuously trail the woman—clearly that hadn’t gone_ too _effectively. He was simply lucky, or perhaps not, that only Lauren Sinclair could recognize Kieran White no matter how he dressed, despite the significant distance, despite the dark and foggy weather._

_Because he knew Lauren Sinclair too well, he often forgot that she knew him just as much. Perhaps he’d let his guard down too much with her, upon thinking that he held power over her._

_His mistake—but when it first happened, he let it slide._

_“You see red, you charge,” he explained. “Practically a bull.”_

_“Well what was I supposed to do, just pretend like—”_

_“You seem to be forgetting that right now, you’re not a police officer,” Kieran reminded her, chiding in hushed whispers as they made their way discreetly, following the woman while hiding behind the building walls. “Right now, you’re wanted for obstruction of justice, for leaking classified information, and aiding the Purple Hyacinth—”_

_Lauren hissed, but she couldn’t argue._

_“—you’re practically a fugitive, Lauren, a_ criminal _,” Kieran concluded. Lauren’s jaw was tensed, teeth clenched, she’d probably dislocate one of her teeth anytime soon._

_“Don’t you even dare put me under the same category as yourself,” she seethed, looking at him with much disgust. “I’m doing this in the name of justice. And even if I may not be in my officer uniform, that doesn’t take away my duty to the people of Ardhalis, as an officer of the law. I can’t just_ turn a blind eye _at crime as easily as you do, because unfortunately, unlike yourself, some people actually feel the_ guilt _; some people actually have a conscience.”_

_Kieran, who had been walking, stopped abruptly, causing Lauren to crash into his back and stumble backwards. Then he turned sharply, facing at her. His face held no expression—because after all, he was a man of no feelings._

_For a while, he simply stared at her, wondering how to reply to that. His fists clenched and unclenched in agitation._

_Because ultimately he was the more rational one of the two, he proceeded to hit her with more of the truth: “Even if you do go chase that guy, what will you say when you bring him to the station? How will you prove that he’s lying? He hasn’t actually done a crime that you_ can _prove of yet. What are you going to do then, scold him for lying?” He turned around and began walking again, not minding whether she was following him or not. “If you want to arrest him—which you can’t even do, considering you don’t have the officer title at the moment—you need to at least have solid evidence for doing so.”_

_He heard the sound of feet shuffling and assumed it was Lauren catching up with him. Her voice confirmed it: “I can at least pressure him to confess.”_

_Kieran snorted. “So much for being civil. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, we have a bigger issue up our sleeves. Redcliff’s ball is approaching, and we still have no idea where they keep the nitro; Sake’s dead, so we can’t coerce information out of him, and we have no idea who this woman is, so we have to trail her.”_

_Because Lauren couldn’t argue with that, they proceeded to walk in silence for a good while. Kieran then spotted a guy coming to meet with the woman, and they conversed. He tried to take a look at the guy—_

_“SHIT!”_

_He whipped his head backwards, ready to hush her, but the words died in his mouth as he saw Lauren, bending to hold her leg, which had been grazed by a hidden metal bar jutting out from the side of the wall. The scar was exposed through her torn pants, looking gnarly, and he grimaced at the sight, at the same time worrying for her. Her face was that of utter pain, though she was evidently trying to conceal it, pretending like it didn’t hurt as much as it really did._

She’s always in pain when I’m around her _, he thought to himself, but couldn’t do anything about it._

_Kieran looked back briefly to check whether the two people were still where they were, so that he didn’t lose them—but, for a split second, he locked eyes with the man, and realized they knew each other._

_Immediately he turned around and grabbed Lauren, still struggling to even stand on her injured feet, unceremoniously pulling her body behind a corner, keeping them hidden from sight. They were trapped in an alley too narrow, too dark—and yet the moonlight shone too brightly on his face. It took him a while to notice the expression on her face, which had been covered by the shadows._

_It took him a while to realize how uncomfortable she looked, trying to get out of his grasp, knowing she was unable to._

_“I recognize that man, and he saw me,” Kieran muttered, knowing it didn’t provide even a little consolation for her. He… thought he ought to explain, anyway._

_And because she couldn’t do anything, she merely glared to the side, unable to look him in the eye at the given proximity. He checked at the two Phantom Scythe members once in a while—though he was clearly too impatient in doing so—and when he confirmed that they were gone and not eyeing where he was, he released his hold on her._

_Immediately she pulled away, keeping a measurable distance from him, and yet the distance felt all too wide._

_While he tried to recompose himself, Lauren had walked ahead, scouting the area to see if she could still find them. “We’ve lost her,” she said defeatedly in the end. “At least you recognize the man; we can go from there.”_

We _?_

_Kieran shook his head. “I’m taking you out of this. I was supposed to be doing this alone. You shouldn’t have followed me earlier.”_

_“It’s too late to pull me out,” Lauren scoffed, too offended. “You were the one who dared propose me this deal.”_

_“And I broke it for good reason. We’re incapable of working together.”_

_He didn’t wait to hear for a reply, turning around to make his way out of the docks. His heart throbbed against his ribcage as he wiped his clammy hands against his coat, rushing his way home in the middle of the freezing night._

* * *

**LAUREN SINCLAIR WAS** everywhere; even if he tried to get her out of his life, it proved to be an impossible feat.

Even if he hadn’t struck the deal with her that night, Harvey Wood, the spy of the 11th precinct, would still have been murdered, and he would’ve still been planted at the precinct as a replacement mole. Even if he was no longer working with her as Lune, he still had to see her everyday at work.

And even if their jobs were highly different—one confined within the shelves of the archives, one sitting behind piles and piles of paperwork—he, _somehow_ , by some cursed fate up in the stars above, could not get her out of his sight. 

He was simply looking out the window, taking notice of the crescadingly gloomy weather and wondering how he was to make his way home, when he saw the officers walking back from their daily patrol. Among them, of course, was none other than the red-haired officer, Lauren Sinclair herself. She walked at the very end of the group, lagging behind, seemingly lost in her own thoughts—

—and so it surprised him (he also hadn’t noted how long he’d been staring at her, apparently) when her eyes looked right into his, reddish gold against grayish cyan, and it felt quite like lightning that struck and broke the surface tension of the sea, collapsing within itself. She’d done nothing but look at him—so pensively, so painfully—yet it felt like she was right ahead of her, in front of the wall instead of behind the window, having shot an invisible bullet right at his—

—his what?

His _heart_?

Did he even have a heart left, after what he did to her?

He was a monster who reaped lives, and no good he could do that would take that away from him. Nothing, not even someone as _human_ at Lauren Sinclair herself, could rebuild the heart he’d lost. Whatever pain he felt, surely, was phantom, and he needed to stop dwelling on things long gone.

Lauren was first to look away, but not after giving him a pernicious glare. It was clear that she was trying to keep a strong front; her bloodied eyes stood out too much in the bleak grayscale of the city. He didn’t expect her to be any kinder. Whatever they’d built was now dust, gone with the wind, and it was vain to even try and fix it. 

He was still watching—because somehow, there was something so magnetic about Lauren Sinclair to him, attractive the way south was to north, attractive of a monster’s dying wish to be human, that he kept his gaze trained on her—when he saw her two best friends, the Lieutenant and the Sergeant, who had been leading the group, falling behind just to wait for her. And when she smiled, he knew it wasn’t forced—he knew her enough to distinguish the meaning of her smiles. He knew, then, that Lauren Sinclair was—as broken as she was, she was still capable of feeling, of being happy, of enjoying others’ presence in her life, of being around people without worrying—

—without worrying that they’d die, because of her, or even worse—

—by her.

He could never have that luxury. He’d been—he’d been turned into this _monster_ , and there was no reversal for him.

When he felt that twinge again, he promptly shut the windows closed, and leaned against the wall. It was all for the better, he convinced himself. It was for the better that they did not work together, because after all, they were both ticking time bombs that would only speed up when placed in each others’ presence. The collateral damage they brought upon their surroundings could only be summarized as catastrophic. Now, he could not last so long looking at her without being reminded, achingly, of what he so wished he could be.

His eyes—

were watering, and so he immediately brought his hand up and wiped it away on his sleeve. Indeed, it had been a tiring night, in which he barely caught any sleep. He supposed she didn’t, either—

—why did he even care?

He didn’t.

No. He should—because in the end, she was still pertinent to his plan. It was only through Lauren Sinclair’s obstinacy, through her bountiful grit, through her extremity that they were able to win this war against the Phantom Scythe. And sure—he may have been a monster fighting for a human cause—he may have lost all his human-like feelings—he might have no right to live in the world he fought for—but at the very least, he’d do all he could to take all the monsters down with him, in the same manner they made him—monstrously. He could not let his severe sacrifice be in vain.

_We are monsters, every last one of us._

_Burn us, raze us to the ground; don’t leave anything,_ anyone _, behind._

In the confines of the archives, he crumbled on the ground, clutching his excruciatingly restless chest.  
  


* * *

**_WHEN SHE APPEARED_ ** _on his doorstep in the middle of the night, oddly enough, he wasn’t too surprised by the sight—as if she’d been doing that all his life._

_And so he held the door open for her, and she entered the humble living space he referred to as a home—and perhaps, it was the one place he felt safest in—but surely no place was safe enough for someone who had terrible nightmares and constant reminders of the past. Nonetheless, she walked right into it—like she did to everything, taking the center of attention where she belongs, and situated herself on the couch without question._

_Kieran wondered briefly when she’d gotten used to her presence in his life—dangerous, very dangerous indeed._

_He stood across her, leaning against the edge of the table. For a while, they stared at each other and said nothing._

_“It’s midnight,” he then declared, because it was becoming clear Lauren Sinclair wasn’t going to do the honors. “Why are you not sound asleep within the secure walls of your house?”_

_“Has there ever been a night in which I get a peaceful sleep?” she snorted._

_“I wouldn’t know; you’ve got a nice house with a loving uncle and caring maids, why_ wouldn’t _you get a peaceful sleep?”_

_But she replied, “You of all people would understand why,” and he realized that he was not the only one aware of that seemingly insignificant fact: he knew her the most, and she, him._

_“Why here, then?”_

_“Because I knew you wouldn’t be asleep, either.”_

_Kieran scoffed, though it came out weak, because admittedly, he was not in the particular mood to taunt the officer. “Are we the only insomniacs in the city? The only ones having trouble sleeping? I’m sure the Lieutenant, your best friend since the good old days, has his fair share of restlessness. Why not go to him?”_

_Evidently, Lauren was just as tired, eyelids drooping as her body began to lose the rigid posture it graciously held. “He has his own problems. He… he doesn’t quite understand.”_

I’m not sure how I do _, Kieran wanted to argue, but she didn’t look like she was listening anymore, body already tilted too far to the side, looking like it was going to fall limp any moment now. “Hey, if you want to sleep here, go sleep on the bed.”_

_“‘M good,” she muttered, before finally plopping across the couch, her head bouncing off it slightly. Her soft crimson hair fell messily across her face, a sharp contrast from her pale skin, and he watched in wonder the way her eyelashes flutter so softly, her eyebrows slowly relax, and her frown dissipated as she succumbed into sleep. He—_

_He didn’t realize it, but he was—_

smiling _?_

_And when he did realize it, he wasn’t too bothered—after all, it was—well, natural, for—to smile, when one sees something ever so enchanting, ethereal, and that was what she was. Just Lauren Sinclair, having a moment of peace. It was such a sight, and he longed…_

_for what—_

_“Is watching me sleep that fascinating?” Lauren mumbled, and he blinked, wondering when she’d even opened her mouth._

_Kieran shook his head, before remembering that her eyes were closed. “Do you mind if I carry you to the bed? I can’t let you sleep here.”_

_“I do mind,” she retorted, somehow managing to sound matter-of-factly despite being half-asleep. Kieran smirked at the sight, finding her childish antics all too silly._

_“Lauren—”_

_“Stay with me,” she pleaded silently._

_Kieran froze for a moment, before he began pressing on his fingers. He… wasn’t quite sure—wasn’t quite sure about anything._

_So he simply complied to her request, sitting on the carpet, next to where her head lied on the couch. Their faces were incredibly close, but—maybe because it was so quiet, and maybe because she had her eyes closed, and maybe because they were both drowsy—neither of them made an effort to move from their positions. When he spoke again, he was sure she could even feel his breath on her skin from their proximity: “You’re not even going to sleep on the bed, and now you’re not letting me sleep on the bed?”_

_Then she—_

_—smiled—_

_—that one smile she reserved for him, and him only; a smile so small you could miss, but so… honest and tender, unlike anything Lauren Sinclair was, and yet so… her? As if, in her limbo between consciousness and the dreams that more often than not haunted her, she had extended an arm to reality, urging him to join her in hand, so that—so that he could be in his dreams with her, and—_

_his breath hitched, and_

_and he quite simply couldn’t—that awfully familiar twinge in his heart was back again—_

_“A duo who fights together, suffers together,” she joked, and he—_

_“God, I love you.”_

_“What?”_

_Her face was that of surprise, but—but she didn’t look offended, horrified, or disgusted like she usually did—_

_—and that was enough for him._

_“You heard nothing,” Kieran muttered. Then, very hesitantly, after what felt like an eternity of him hovering his hand above her face, he tucked the messy fringes covering her face behind her ear, so gently, barely touching her. Her eyes were opened, but rather than staring at him, she seemed to be conflicted by her own thoughts._

_That, too, he could relate with._

_He brushed his thumb over her eyelid, causing them to flutter close. “Sleep, Lauren.”_

_For a while, he decided to give her a moment of privacy by looking away, and decided to immerse in his own set of thoughts. When he looked back at her, she was seemingly asleep, but—_

_—but that smile, the smile that was barely a smile, that smile that was for_ him _, was back. And so was the sharp spasm in his heart, along with the throbbing headache, and a lifelong curiosity he eventually answered in all the wrong ways—_

_Why did he say that?_

_Why…_

* * *

**KIERAN WHITE ULTIMATELY** realizes that, even after everything—even after realizing that he was a monster, even after nearly taking the life out of her, even after being reminded time and again all the reasons they couldn’t be together, even after being tested and failing that, and breaking her trust yet again, because he believed that he was inherently a monster and nothing else, and that he could never know care, or _love_ , or anything human for that matter, even after he’d completely separated their lives from each other and burning every memory he held of her—in the end, he still loves her.

He realizes that he still has the ability to feel—to feel the _pain_ —because—

He realizes too late that, deep down, he is still human—inherently and painfully so.

_And in the end, that is what kills him the most._

**Author's Note:**

> yo. been a while since i wrote deliberate downright character-driven tragedy, so excuse me if my emotions are unhinged (like the wonky ass timeline of this fic—what even goes _on_ ). like kieran white—i’ve gone full circle, writing angst to a bunch of fluff and now i’m back to le angst; i only hope my writing skills themselves haven’t gone retrograde as well. yeet
> 
> you have two things to blame for this monstrosity: **flower of evil** , because the guy was just so dumb it gave me all the stress and pity in the world (no offense to lee junki himself), and [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfYPKZl7W1w). it’s literally the worst song in existence (fuck you urban zakapa), and i love it because it’s so real. the context is too different, but the feels are all the same.
> 
> idk how this turned out, but i hope you like it anyway! i guess i wasn’t the nicest with this, so if you haven’t, go read [my christmas fluff fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324131) because that’s the nicest i can ever get (yes i am shamelessly promoting this fic because it wasn’t easy to write 8k fluff okay)
> 
> thanks for reading! kudos and comments are very very very much appreciated. see y’all next year ❤️


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